I was literally born on a bus rolling somewhere between Austin and Nashville. Both my parents are musicians. It sounds romantic, but as a kid I mostly felt the echo of people leaving for the next gig. When I was six, my sister Mila and I moved in with Nana & Pop in Watseka, Illinois, and that's where my life finally found a steady drumbeat.

Nana ran the house with lists on the fridge and quiet hugs; Pop taught me to fix things and gave me his lucky guitar pick.

That house smelled like roast dinners, motor oil, and old hymnals, and the floorboards knew every secret.

My family is mixed - Native American and Black on my mom's side, German and Irish on my dad's.

I grew up with stories about love and survival and the ways people get hurt just for being who they are. Those stories live in my songs like fingerprints.

Mila is eight years older, so for a long time she felt more mom than sister teaching me eyeliner, talking me down from teenage cliffs, sending playlists when the walls got loud. When she moved to Chicago, I was ten. The hole she left turned into melodies. I missed her so much I started writing letters I never sent; later they became choruses.

My dad and I are close now. He knows how hard it is to make music and still keep the lights on, so he helps with rent, shows up to gigs, and texts me lines he likes because he's that kind of supportive. He's a real fan, he knows all the lyrics, even the ones that make us both wince.

I miss Watseka more than I admit onstage: the big sky, the quiet roads, my friends Nancy and Jen, and how the dogs would lean into you like you were the answer. But I needed to leave.

At eighteen, Mila and I found a tiny place in Logan Square. Chicago shook the dust off me: the rush of the 'L', late‑night tacos on Milwaukee Ave, coffee strong enough to hurt. I clock in at venues, then chase songs at 2 a.m. when the radiators hiss and the city goes soft.